The Chess Set
by Jennlee.2
Summary: A wizarding chess set is found in a Muggle shop. Its the perfect gift... but however did it get there? Death Eaters, Voldemort, betrayal, love, and friendship all come into play in this tale told backward. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

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The Chess Set

Chapter 1

The young witch had been past the pawnshop on two other occasions, each time feeling strangely conspicuous in the Muggle street. The shops here were run down and shabby, their alleyways dingy and lined with rubbish. A group of young layabouts catcalled as she passed in the street to avoid them, fingering the wand tucked in her pocket, hoping she wouldn't have need of it. Luckily, the boys were too lazy to cause her real trouble, preferring to merely call out rude remarks from the front stairs of the aging building where they lounged.

She had first seen the shop when she and her girlfriends had become lost on a tour of Muggle London. This had most definitely been the wrong stop on the underground. When passing the pawnshop on this street, she'd stopped dead at the display window, one item in particular catching her eye. She had stared, wondering if what she was seeing could possibly be what she thought it was. It looked like it, she had considered, intrigued at the possibility. Most unlikely, she had told herself as her girlfriends had pulled her away. It was a Muggle shop, after all, in a Muggle street, in Muggle London. How something like _that _could have ended up _there_, she hadn't been able to imagine. 

A few days later, after consulting a photo and returning to peer through the grimy shop window, what she saw had left little doubt in her mind. It had to be the one. She'd known instantly that she had to have it, resolving to return with Muggle money.

The day was pleasant when she returned - the sky, blue, and the air, warmed, from the bright sunshine of late summer. The woman finally reached the pawnshop that was her destination. This particular shop was as decrepit as the other establishments lining the narrow, dirty street. The front window, as unwashed as it had been the last time she'd been here, contained an odd assortment of items. Her eyes roved over the items in almost lazy anticipation. A shiny silver salver rested on an intricate marble plant stand. A dented French Horn leaned against an ornate gold-framed mirror. Three electric guitars in lacquered primary colors were suspended over a large mounted fish of a variety unknown to her. Her eyes finally reached the small table where she had first seen the thing she was here for. Instead of the item she sought, however, her eyes found only an old fashioned camera. Her heart started to beat fast and she felt a little sick. Where was it? Had she missed her chance? Had it been sold? 

Hurrying to the door, she yanked it open, bursting into the shop. Her eyes searched frantically as her spirits sank. In the small shop, nearly overflowing with junk, it was a few desperate moments before she noticed the display cabinet. Closing her eyes, she breathed a sigh of relief. There it was.

"Might I 'elp you, miss?" A man's voice sounded through the silence of the cluttered shop. The young witch looked up to find the Muggle shopkeeper, a small, stooped man who looked to be in his late seventies. Standing near the register, he watched her closely, a curious but guarded expression on his face. Absurdly, above his head hung a taxidermal pelican, frozen awkwardly in mid-flight. 

Mentally kicking herself for letting anxiety blind her, she straightened up and smoothed her skirt. There was little chance of coming off composed at this point, she realized, but she hoped that the man wouldn't suspect she was anything other than a normal, ordinary Muggle. She had done quite well in Muggle Studies at Hogwarts, although now that she was actually here in a Muggle shop, she wasn't feeling particularly confident.

She took a deep breath. "How much is that, please?" she asked politely, pointing to the small wooden box in the display case.

The shopkeeper didn't look surprised by her inquiry. He looked at her closely, as though taking all of her in, his bright eyes peering sharply from behind crinkled lids. She cringed slightly under the intensity of his gaze. With a sudden movement, he nodded resolutely, as if he'd made some kind of decision. He smiled at her. "Them? Oh, you got a noice eye, miss. Genuine antiques, they is." He waved a shaky hand at the box, lid open to display its contents. "You won't find another set like _'at_ in all a' Britain." The old man pulled out a ring of keys, and with a slightly shaky hand, opened the display cabinet. He dusted the box delicately with a crumpled cloth before setting it gently on the counter.

"But how much?" The woman absentmindedly twirled her unruly copper hair as she examined the box and its contents. No, she thought to herself, there wouldn't be another like this to be found in Britain, would there?

Still smiling, the shopkeeper winked at her. "For you miss, a special rate. Just for you, mind, luv, on account of your being so pretty."

She fought the urge to roll her eyes - pretty was something that she knew she was definitely not - and waited expectantly.

When he told her his price, the young witch quickly and silently calculated with the Pound to Galleon exchange rate. Was that correct? She took in a sharp breath, embarrassed immediately at the loud sound in the quiet shop. Forcing herself to smile pleasantly, she looked at the shopkeeper. "As much as that?" 

"Oh, yes, miss. Rare. Fings like that as don't come cheap." The old man nodded.

She sighed inwardly. She knew that she had to have it. She also knew that from her display of anxiety earlier, the shopkeeper was aware of her need as well. She would pay his price. She smiled inwardly. She would have paid more if she'd been asked.

The shopkeeper wrapped her purchase with care as she counted out a thick stack of Muggle bank notes. When the man handed over the box, she noticed with surprise that his eyes were moist, and he seemed reluctant to let the package go. 

Once at home, she examined her purchase, comparing it closely to the photograph. In the picture, a young man played a game of chess, his queen taking his opponent's bishop with a violent smash. Yes, she thought, scrutinizing the photo, this has got to be it. The chess set she had purchased was identical to the one in the photograph. 

She checked thoroughly to make certain that the carving was the same. It was, as was the color of the stone. The young witch smiled as she polished each of the chess pieces with a soft cloth. As she held each chessman in turn, she noticed the beauty of their carved faces, and the character of the stone from which they had sprung. She could sense the magic in them. In an enchanted slumber, the chessmen were waiting to spring to life at the touch of a game board. If she'd had more time, she would have liked to try them. Muggle Studies was not her only talent.

Once the pieces were meticulously buffed and polished, she carefully wrapped the wood-inlaid box in festive paper and ribbons. She smiled, looking forward to tonight very much. This would be the perfect gift. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The days were so dreadfully dull, Teddy thought as he puttered about his shop, a shop he'd recently inherited from his father, who had inherited it from his father before him. The junk trade was a living, although not a lucrative one. He smiled, thinking of how his family had always scraped by, never enough money for holidays or automobiles. There had been barely enough for his father to pursue the hobby of stamp collecting. This was a trade for an old man, Teddy thought, older than his twenty years, anyway, although he didn't mind so very much.

Teddy's tiny space was filled with an odd assortment of inventory - everything from toasters, to diamonds, to a stuffed pelican. He was particularly fond of the pelican, which he remembered staring at as a young boy, when the shop had been his grandfather's. Teddy kept the bird, hanging it prominently from the ceiling near the register. It led to much banter with customers inquisitive enough to wonder why on earth anyone had pawned a pelican.

Teddy had only had one customer all morning - a woman back to redeem her engagement ring for the second time. She'd been in earlier in the year, Teddy recalled. It was a real diamond - smallish, but of good quality. The woman with the ring had a narrow face and brightly colored eyes that Teddy thought looked a bit sad. He liked her. He liked everyone, mostly, except for the gang of young toughs that sometimes knocked about in his shop, until he threatened to call the police, or pulled out the axe handle he had stowed under the counter.

Sometimes Teddy invented stories about his customers. It passed the time in the quiet shop, and was like inventing friends. This morning he started making one up about his customer with the engagement ring, Clara. Clara was a shop girl, he decided, trying to guess in what sort of shop she worked. Perhaps a tobacconist? No, that wasn't right, she'd carried no odor of cigarettes. A chemist's? Yes, that was better, he thought. She was a counter girl at the chemist's, working five days a week on her feet, ringing up antacids, breath mints, and plasters. Teddy could picture her tired face, smiling pleasantly while making change from the register.

She was alone and lonely, he imagined, living in a one-room flat a few streets away. At least, she had been lonely before the sandy-haired man had come into her shop for a packet of mints. Their eyes had met across the counter, and when handing him twenty-six pence in change, she'd touched his hand briefly. The man - Marcus, Teddy decided to call him - had asked her around to the local pub where they'd fallen in love over pints of Guinness and blaring music. In his mind, Teddy could see them holding hands in the dim pub, leaning close to talk together over the loud music.

Marcus had showed up one evening with the ring - a small, but real, diamond purchased with his regular wages as a bricklayer. Clara had answered yes immediately, and thrown herself into his arms. Teddy smiled at the particularly sweet image emerging in his mind.

The shopkeeper frowned as his story took a new turn. The unthinkable had happened. Marcus had been killed - struck down by a car, or perhaps a panel truck driven by a drunken tradesman. Perhaps it was only weeks before the wedding. He could picture Clara sobbing when she heard the news. 

Times had somehow grown difficult for Clara. Teddy speculated that she had perhaps lost her job. Something had caused her to remove her engagement ring and bring it to Teddy's shop. He remembered that the first time she'd pawned it, it had been very difficult for her. There had been tears in her eyes as he had taken the ring from her shaking, outstretched palm. 

Clara had returned with the money to redeem her ring, repaying the loan plus the interest. He hadn't been surprised she'd come back for it, and was pleased to see the relief in her eyes when her ring was safely returned.

The second time she had pawned the ring, only a few weeks ago, Teddy recalled that she'd had that same sad look, although this time there had been no tears. This morning, she'd returned with the money and her claim ticket. Teddy had once again been glad to see the relief in her eyes.

Teddy quite liked Clara. She was probably only a few years older than he was. The next time he saw her, he might ask her out, he decided - perhaps for a pint down the street. There was a pub that had a loud jukebox.

Teddy's story about Clara was interrupted when a man, disheveled and swarthy looking, stumbled into his shop. He was breathing heavily, and had a wild look in his eye that Teddy didn't like. Teddy was a small man himself, with a slight build, and he didn't favor his chances if this stranger proved violent. 

He felt underneath the counter to reassure himself that his axe handle was there. Dangers such as these were not uncommon in the life of a pawnshop owner, he knew.

"H-h-how much can I get for this?" The wild-eyed man held out a small wooden box, his hands shaking hard, causing whatever was inside to rattle loudly.

Teddy could see the box was made of wood with an intricate pattern of inlay. It was quite pretty. He reached out, and with calm hands took it from the shaking man. Teddy examined the box gingerly as the man paced in front of the counter. The box lid pivoted smoothly on hidden hinges. Lifting the top, Teddy saw that the box contained a chess set. It was quite a curious thing to pawn, he thought, although he had seen stranger things - his eyes strayed briefly to the pelican suspended overhead. 

Teddy found the chess figures to be intricately carved and quite detailed. To his eye they looked almost human. The quality of the workmanship was quite brilliant. He'd never seen anything like it. Picking up his jeweler's loop, he examined the pieces. Phenomenal, he thought, looking at the queen, her intricate facial features of such severe beauty as he had never before seen.

The dark haired man was still pacing and shaking. Teddy fought the urge to immerse himself in a study of the tiny carved figures, so as to keep on his guard with the stranger.

Tipping the pieces gently onto a soft cloth, Teddy started to arrange them in their proper order, surprised to find there was only one half of a full set. Where were the other pieces? These were only enough for one player. He wondered why had this set been divided. Shaking his head at the shame of it, he looked at the small stone carvings with a doubtful eye. Nobody would want to buy half of a set of chess players, would they? 

However, something told him that this was special. Without knowing why, Teddy knew only that he wanted the chessmen. It was a bad business practice, to give cash loans on items that would probably never sell, but Teddy didn't care in this instance.

He looked up at the pacing man. "Ten pound."

The man stopped and was quickly back to the counter, his voice incredulous. "A tenner? That's all? You're crazy." He obviously wasn't pleased, his eyes as wild as they had been when he'd first entered the shop. Teddy again reassured himself that his axe handle was within easy reach, eyeing the man warily.

Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, Teddy said, "Twenty then." Before the wild-eyed man could protest, he added, " 'At's a gift, mate. This is only 'alf a set. It's probably worth noffing."

The man was shaking more than ever. Teddy didn't like him and wanted him out of the shop as quickly as possible. He pushed his final button, smiling a little, "You got proof of ownership, dontcha?" As the man's expression changed, Teddy smiled. Obviously, the man didn't have a receipt for the item. It was quite likely to have been stolen. Usually taking care not to deal in hot merchandise, this time Teddy didn't mind. He wanted the chess set, and with an item like that, who would ever know?

"A pony then. A pony," The man finally said, his dark eyes showing their desperation.

Teddy nodded. What was another fiver? It would be worth it just to get the man out of the shop. He counted out twenty-five pounds in five-pound notes and wrote out a ticket, knowing that the man would never redeem it. He placed the money on the counter, the ticket on top.

The man made no acknowledgement of the transaction other than grabbing the stack of bills and racing out.

Once his customer had gone, Teddy was able to examine the chess pieces at his leisure. He loved their perfect proportions and wise faces. He polished each meticulously with a soft cloth, finding something about them that was so intriguing and mysterious. He ended up polishing them all several times over, finally forcing himself to lay them aside. Teddy found his thoughts returning to the chess pieces constantly. Ultimately, he had to put them away in a storage cabinet so he could get on with his work.

When Teddy swept the front walk - something he bothered with only rarely - he found the pawn ticket crumpled and discarded near the door. His instincts had been correct; the wild-eyed man would never return for the chess set. This knowledge comforted him.

Teddy tried later to make up a story about the wild-eyed man, but he found that it disturbed him too much.

Over many years, Teddy kept the chess set in his cupboard, never displaying it for sale. He would take it out occasionally to look at it and polish it, but he never once thought of selling it. He liked to touch the carved stone and look closely at the tiny faces. He imagined they might someday spring to life in his hands. Sometimes he dreamed that they did. It was crazy, he knew. Chessmen didn't move on their own. That was only in dreams, he told himself, looking sadly at the figures, still and silent in the light of day.

Teddy didn't know why he finally put it on display in the window after so many years. It wasn't something he had thought about or planned. One day shortly after his seventieth birthday, it just seemed the right thing to do. He removed the set from the storage cabinet and polished the pieces again. This time, however, instead of wrapping it back safely, he hobbled to the display window and set up the pieces on a small table, each in its proper position, as if on a chessboard. As he carefully aligned the pieces, Teddy could imagine them readying themselves for battle. Their stone bodies seemed to hold a tension that he couldn't explain.

Many times that day, he regretted his actions, dreading that someone would want to purchase his prized possession. It wasn't likely, he tried to reassure himself. Nobody would want to buy half a chess set. Teddy wondered why he didn't just bring the thing back into the shop, but for some reason he didn't.

After two weeks in the front window, Teddy brought the chess pieces back in to polish them. He decided not to put them back in the window, putting them instead in the display case near the counter. He didn't know why he did this, either. It just seemed right, somehow.

When the young woman came into his shop that pleasant afternoon, he was quite surprised. She didn't look like the usual sort of customer he had. She was dressed well and had a look of money about her. Slim and tall with thick, unruly red hair, Teddy decided that, while he wouldn't call her pretty in a traditional English Rose manner, he would almost certainly call her striking. She looked around the shop frantically as he watched, noting her expensive clothes and fashionable handbag.

Teddy knew instantly why she had come, when he saw her eyes fall upon the display cabinet. She had come for the chess set. She must have seen it in the window, and now had returned for it. His intuition was proved correct when she asked him the cost of his most prized possession.

It was the moment that he had been dreading. He'd never considered selling it to anyone before, and he didn't like the prospect now, but he crushed the urge to tell her it was not for sale.

As he looked at her closely, Teddy's anxiety over losing his precious thing lessened somewhat. Something inside him told him that this woman was supposed to have it - that it was somehow right. Thoughts raced through his mind, still spry even in his advanced age. He must have put the chessmen on display for someone to find, even though he hadn't really realized it. After fifty years, it had to mean something that he'd been driven to display the set in the shop window. He was an old man, he told himself, and didn't have many years left. Why shouldn't someone else enjoy what he had all these years?

He nodded, his decision made.

Teddy assuaged his feelings of loss by asking an outrageous price, which the young woman paid with barely a question. He wrapped the set carefully so the pieces wouldn't knock together, saying goodbye in his head to each piece, saving the queen for last. It was a difficult thing, to hand the package to young woman. It was more difficult than anything Teddy had done in his seventy years, but somehow he knew it was right.

The shop felt different once she had gone - once it had gone. Teddy felt more alone. That was a silly thought, he told himself. He sighed and dusted the display case, inventing a story about a young, copper-haired woman - he named her Genevieve in his mind - who was desperately seeking half a chess set.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Billy was cold and tired and hurting, sitting in the London park. It had been more than a day since his last fix. He needed to get some money soon, or he would die. Well, he knew that he probably wouldn't actually die, but with every cell of his body screaming out in pain, the distinction didn't really matter.

From a public telephone, he called his dealer. That done, Billy again took a seat on a park bench, eyeing the passersby for an easy mark. It wasn't as if he was some kind of hood, he told himself. He didn't particularly enjoy robbing people. But 'desperate times' and all that. It wasn't his fault that he had to have the drug - that his body needed the chemical bliss that only _it_ could provide. He was just doing what was he had to. That was all.

He'd done robbery twice, both times coming away with money. Nobody had been hurt. Billy had liberated enough funds for his fix, and his targets had an exciting tale to tell their friends. It was a fair enough trade, he figured.

It was a cold day, and the cold made the pain of his withdrawal acute. Billy grew more edgy with each passing minute on the chilly park bench, huddled in his thin jacket. His senses were heightened in his current state. He could almost scent his prey as people hurried hither and thither through the park, hunched and bundled against the cold. It wouldn't be long now.

Billy noticed a woman passing by with a handbag. He couldn't wait. She would be the one, he decided. He imagined that he could smell the fresh pound notes inside her purse. Fifty paces behind, and walking fast to catch up, he looked around carefully for witnesses. There were none. Thirty paces behind, he could see that her hair was blonde and curled under the cap she wore. She wouldn't give him any trouble. Twenty paces behind, he noticed the flash of a ring on her finger - possibly even a diamond. Drugs for a month, if so, he thought, almost salivating at the prospect. Ten paces behind, he was so close he could see that she had a ladder in her tights. Soon. Very soon.

So intent on his target, Billy didn't see the man - an older man in a dark suit - coming up the path. Billy stopped short, surprised as the man called out. The blonde woman waved at him and called back. Billy hurried, veering from the path. He sat down on a nearby bench, trying to get his breathing under control as the blonde woman and the dark-suited man went off together. That was close. The two of them together would have proved too big a handful.

The adrenalin rush from the hunt had momentarily curbed his cravings, but soon the small pains were again shooting through his body. He needed to get something soon or it would be far worse. Hell of an early warning system, he thought wryly, clutching his middle as a flash of pain hit him. His hands were shaking, he saw. He needed something soon.

A man passed by then, dressed strangely - wearing a long cloak of some sort. Perhaps he was going to a fancy dress party, Billy speculated. Or maybe he was just a nutter. He watched the man hurry down the path. Young and fair, the man had a slim build and very light hair. The cloak had a rich look about it, and Billy thought the man's face and demeanor seemed posh. Posh meant money, he thought, picturing a wallet stuffed to bursting with fifty-pound notes.

Billy shivered in the cold, his body craving more than ever. This man was younger and more fit than his previous targets. Perhaps he wouldn't be able to make him give up the money. For a long moment, Billy thought maybe he should wait for a different target. A sudden cramp in his gut reminded him of the urgency of his need. Picking up a large stone from the ground, Billy slipped it into his pocket. He'd never used a weapon before, but he might need one now. This man was young and strong and wouldn't give up his money easily. Billy didn't want to hurt anyone. His body was telling him in a most painful way that he couldn't wait another minute. The stone would have to do. He told himself he wouldn't hurt the man. He'd just knock him down so that he could get the money. 

He followed the man, who was walking quickly and purposefully through the park. Billy trotted fast to catch up, this time watching closely for witnesses. Thirty paces from his prey, he could see the man wrapping his cloak tighter against the cold. Billy shivered in his thin jacket. Twenty paces from the man, Billy could see that his target wore shiny black boots. Billy jogged silently in his cheap trainers. Ten paces from the man, he could see that the cloak had a plush fur collar. Billy tried to keep his breathing steady as he eased the stone from his pocket. He watched the man closely now, smiling to himself. The man had no idea Billy was there. Fool, Billy thought, with public parks the way they are nowadays.

With a quick lunge, Billy struck, knocking the stone sharply against the back of his target's head. The man crumpled instantly and completely, dropping to the cold ground in eerie silence. Billy looked in wonder at the human form at his feet, completely still in an almost tranquil sort of way.

The fact that he had just killed for the first time was lost on Billy as he set upon the prone man, rifling his pockets. Frantic hands pawed the still figure, finding no wallet. Billy groaned. He wanted to kick the man, putting him to all this trouble for nothing! He tried to calm himself, plundering his prey for anything that might be of value. Seizing a small leather bag, he found some foreign coins. Probably rubbish, but maybe they were worth something. Shoving the bag into his pocket, Billy continued the search. In a deep pocket on the inside of the cloak he found a rectangular package wrapped in paper. He shoved it into his own pocket without taking the time to look at it. Someone might come along the path at any moment. Finally, in the man's trouser pocket, Billy discovered a polished stick about a foot in length. Perhaps this fellow was a foreign conductor or something, Billy thought, throwing the useless thing away in the grass. There was nothing left. Billy longed to take the warm cloak, but wouldn't let himself. It might be identifiable. Hurrying from of the park, not bothering to look back, he stopped only for a moment to toss the bloody stone into a rubbish bin.

Billy finally got his fix by selling the coins. They'd been worth more than he thought - they turned out to be gold. The pawnshop clerk didn't know what country they were from, either, but he knew they were gold. Well funded, Billy managed to acquire enough drugs to sit happily in his rented room, deep in uncaring chemical bliss. It was a good week. A wonderful week. Best week ever, he thought. Unfortunately, it couldn't last. The drugs ran out. Once again in need of money, Billy's eyes fell upon the rectangular package, still undisturbed upon his battered chest of drawers.

Billy opened the wrapping, wondering what riches it might contain. More gold? His eyes lit up at that thought. Hell, he thought, it could even be drugs. That would save him a trip, he laughed, tearing off the paper wrapping. He was disappointed to find only a wooden box containing small stone carvings. He recognized it as a chess set of some kind, and doubted that it was worth much. It had to be worth at least one fix. It just had to be. Billy just needed something to get him through until tomorrow. Then he'd decide what to do next.

Billy decided on a pawnshop halfway across town, afraid of anything being traced back to him. His body was starting to crave again, and the ride on the underground seemed to take forever. Finally, he made his way through the streets to the shop, hands shaking and skin crawling.

The man behind the counter was young and fit, and looked suspicious when Billy came in. The shopkeeper only coughed up a pony for the chess set - the mean bastard. He even had the nerve to ask for proof of ownership. If Billy hadn't been in so much agony, he would have certainly showed that man something. He would have showed the git, he would.

A lousy twenty-five pounds, Billy thought, clutching the bills. There was a sudden jarring motion as the train stopped. Only one more station to go. Billy stared at the crumpled banknotes in disgust. At least it was enough for one more fix.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Most of the manor had been cleaned and restored - although certainly not to its former glory, its occupant freely admitted. Draco Malfoy didn't care that much, really. He'd restored his home more out of a sense of familial obligation rather than a true desire to occupy the place.

During the process, his father's study had gone untouched. It was difficult for him to go in there, even now with his father dead and gone. As a young child, he'd liked the room - the tall bookcases filled to bursting with enchanted volumes, the curio cases stuffed full of intriguing magical objects, and the imposing walnut desk with high-backed chair in Slytherin green leather. It was only as Draco grew older that he came to dislike the room, coming to grips with what it truly represented.

Draco's life hadn't been a simple one, balancing the fear and love of his father with his emerging conscience. Taught to hate from birth, he'd learned that lesson with vehemence. It was only as he'd grown older that he'd begun to consider things in a different light - that his hate had been tempered somewhat. What he had learned for all those years no longer made the sense that it had. He had found no answers to the questions emerging in his mind. 'Loyalty and obedience' was practically the Malfoy motto and questions were not allowed. 

Even as he'd sought the answers within himself, Draco had remained loyal, maintaining the precarious balance between his father and his soul. Fear had played a part in it - no doubt about that - he'd long been smart enough to know what his father was, and to be afraid. He'd also found it difficult to be disloyal to the man who had raised him - who had groomed him so completely for a specific destiny.

It didn't matter now, Draco told himself for the hundredth time. Motives didn't count anymore. He had been the perfect son and the perfect Slytherin until almost the end, although he had never officially become a Death Eater. The final battle had been fought before the Dark Mark could be burned into his flesh, a small twist of fate for which Draco felt forever thankful.

The end was all that mattered. At least that's what his barrister had told the panel at his trial. Draco's ultimate actions had saved countless lives and had assisted in the destruction of Voldemort. The lawyer's account of it had made it sound as though Draco Malfoy should be thrown parades in the streets. Malfoy chucked a little, remembering that blowhard. No parades for me, he thought wryly. He'd made his choice and had to live with it. He had betrayed his father, the Dark Lord, and everything that he had been taught his whole life.

What had his disloyalty bought him? The ever-analytical Slytherin, Draco had to admit that in the end it had been worth it. The Dark Lord would have been defeated regardless of the personal decision that he'd made. This way Draco had come out on the winning side. His actions in those final moments bought him freedom now, after a fashion, along with redemption of a sort. He could be his own man, no longer a toady to Voldemort or a pawn of his father. Best of all, while many Death Eaters were serving life sentences in Azkaban, Draco Malfoy was free.

His actions had not been without price, he knew. It had cost him a public trial, a hefty fine, and his father's life. Draco had been willing to pay this price. 

It was an interesting philosophical debate, Draco thought wryly. Which was the more perfect Slytherin action? To remain loyal to the Dark Lord who was doomed to be defeated, or to serve his own interests by betraying him? Draco rather thought the latter.

He had never bothered to clean out his father's study. It wasn't something to be trusted to house-elves, even though Malfoy Manor still housed an abundance of them. The room had sat unused since the Ministry's final raid. The Aurors had confiscated everything particularly Dark, even finding the hidden chamber under the drawing room. That didn't bother Draco, although he couldn't imagine how they had found it.

The study had gathered dust for years, its memories hidden away behind a stout oaken door and iron lock. After enough time, Draco could even pass the door without descending into his own memories. He'd fallen into a happy balance of ignoring it and living quietly.

Things changed with the letter.

The letter from Hogwarts came unexpectedly, a tawny owl dropping it onto Draco's breakfast tray one winter morning. He was stunned when he saw the crest and even more surprised to he read the contents. They couldn't possibly be serious, he thought. And yet he knew that they were. It was unbelievable. Draco Malfoy, son of a Death Eater, Slytherin, and traitorous turncoat, was being offered a teaching position at Hogwarts - Defense Against the Dark Arts. He blinked rapidly, reading the letter several times. 

Severus Snape, the headmaster, had signed the parchment. Draco felt a small stab of revulsion as he read Snape's name, bitter thoughts coming unbidden to his mind. Snape was another who had betrayed his father and the Dark Lord. Worse yet, he had been a spy for years, selling out those few friends he had in the echelon of Death Eaters. Draco sighed, reminding himself quickly that he was not one to judge on the subject of being a traitor. Indeed, he was the reason that Snape was still alive to be headmaster at Britain's best wizarding school.

Draco stared at the letter a long time, thinking. Was this a chance for a new start? A chance to do something other than live out his remaining long years alone in this manor?

He sent the owl back with his response. A rash decision, he realized, watching the owl flap out of sight, but one that felt right. Perhaps it was time to let go of the past.

A fresh start on his mind, Draco decided it was time to clean out the study. The room that moments before held only memories of his failures now offered him opportunity. He would purge those memories once and for all.

Draco decided that he would donate everything to the school. They could use the books in particular, he knew, the library having been almost completely destroyed during the war.

Draco unlocked the study door and eased it wide. Heavy draperies darkened the room. Through the gloom he could see the disarray of overturned furniture and slashed tapestries. His feet crunched on broken glass, the smashed remnants of the curio cases strewn about. The result of the Ministry's raid, Draco recalled. He stepped hesitantly inside, disconcerted that he could still smell the distinctive scent of his father in the room, even after all these years.

Striding through the gloom quickly, he opened the draperies. Choking through the thick plumes of dust released from the fabric, Draco unlocked and opened the windows, grateful for the chilly breeze that removed the smell of his father from the room. The day was bright and winter sunlight burst into the room, driving out the darkness. Draco stood for some time, quietly looking around. The memories were very fresh in his mind, but he hoped that the cleaning would help with that.

Conjuring several large boxes, Draco picked up and examined the books that had been thrown carelessly on the floor. He remembered the Aurors pulling down whole shelves of books searching for forbidden volumes. Many of the books were old - they'd been his grandfather's and before that, his grandfather's grandfather's. Some dated back as far as the Malfoy lineage could be traced, and that was a good long time. Dumped carelessly on the floor amidst the rubble of the smashed curio cases and battered furniture, Draco found some of the thick leather bindings were split and their pages torn. Some books near a broken window had been water stained. Some had been stepped upon, dirty boot prints evident, although now obscured with several years worth of dust.

It was a shame, he thought as he picked up the books. Draco placed them carefully into the boxes, smoothing any crumpled pages, telling himself the bindings could be repaired. Then he started on the shelves, some of which had been left surprisingly undisturbed. He kept only some family photo albums - not because he ever wanted to look at them again, but because he couldn't bear to put them in the box.

It took him some time to finish with the books, the stack of boxes growing to a small mountain in the corner of the room. Finally, it was done. Draco sat down at the desk, feeling peculiar to be in his father's chair. As a child, he'd never been allowed to be alone in the study, and he'd certainly never had the nerve to sit in this seat. Pushing his feelings of discomfort aside, he smiled just a little, telling himself again that it was a good day for change. Perhaps it would be the start of better things to come. The new term at Hogwarts would start just after Christmas, and Draco was looking forward to being there.

Rummaging through the desk for a piece of parchment and a quill, Draco found the contents in disarray. He located ink and quills finally, and in the top left drawer he found a stack of parchment underneath a wooden box. He pulled out the box and set it on the desk. Parchment, quill, and ink assembled, he composed a letter to Madam Pince, who he knew was still the librarian at Hogwarts. She'd never liked him, favoring the studious Ravenclaws and, of course, that know-it-all Granger. Still, he knew this gift would be received appreciatively, even despite it being from him. The state of the Hogwarts library would ensure that at least.

The letter sent off with his ancient eagle owl, Draco picked up the wooden box curiously. It was quite pretty - richly inlaid in a variety of colored hardwoods. Instinctively, he checked it for curses. None found, he opened the top, surprised to find a chess set inside. He knew that his father hadn't cared much for the game. The huge marble set on which Draco had learned as a child was little more than an impressive decoration for the drawing room. Draco examined the pieces closely, finding them to be carved stone of good quality. 

He hadn't seen anything like it. Or had he? Something nagged at him as he examined the chess figures. He thought perhaps he had, indeed, seen them somewhere before. Was it here in the study? He didn't think so, but he couldn't recall for certain.

Draco idly fiddled with the chess figures. Conjuring a chessboard, Draco smiled as the pieces sprang to life when they touched the black and white squares. After their long sleep in the box, the chessmen were anxious to play, shouting words of encouragement. Draco was not particularly fond of chess, and not having any handy opponents, he had to disappoint the chessmen. He chuckled a bit as he started putting the pieces back into their box.

A sudden thought struck him, as he held the king, examining it closely. "Who owns you?" he asked.

The tiny king huffed as though insulted, but he finally answered in a regal intonation. "We are in the possession of one Lucius Malfoy."

Draco sighed. Well that was obvious, wasn't it? He wasn't quite ready to give up. "In whose possession were you before Lucius Malfoy?"

The king, after another grunt of displeasure, intoned, "Harry Potter."

Draco dropped the piece into the box with a sharp intake of breath. Harry Potter? If that was true then he must have seen the set at Hogwarts. That was why he remembered it. Potter and Weasley sometimes played chess in the Great Hall, he recalled. He couldn't remember what pieces they had used. There was no real reason he should. It wasn't as if Potter and Weasley had been his friends. He frowned as he remembered the many run-ins he'd had with the duo over their school years. 

Things had changed a bit with the war. His loathing of the duo - and Granger - had eased somewhat in the face of his father's rabid hatred. Draco disliked and envied them - Harry for his fame and nobility, Ron for his humor and many siblings and friends, and Hermione for her good marks - but he no longer thoroughly despised them. 

Draco didn't know how his father had come to have Potter's chess set, but he was smart enough to know it was probably ill-gotten gains of some sort. He sighed, annoyed, looking at the box. This was just more of a mess for him to clean up. Of course, he could just chuck the set out. Or he could put it away and forget about it. Somehow he knew he would do neither. It wasn't a difficult decision to make, and he was quite surprised at himself. Draco wrapped the chess box in paper. He called for another owl and started to write a letter but the words wouldn't come. The snowy owl, formerly his father's, and much like the one Potter had owned during their school years, waited on the edge of the desk, waiting, while Draco sat with quill in his motionless hand.

What was he supposed to say? Both 'Dear Potter, here's your chess set back. Sorry for holding onto it all these years' and 'Dear Potter, sorry my father stole this from you. Best wishes' sounded equally stupid. He didn't know why he was bothering. Best to just get rid of it. Throwing down the quill and shooing away the owl, Draco picked up the box and tossed it into the bin that was almost filled with the destructed remnants of the room.

He sat back down at the desk and fiddled with some papers for a while. Then he called in a house-elf and arranged for delivery of the books to the school. Throughout his tasks, he found his gaze returning to the bin. The small box sat quite prominently on top of the stack of rubbish. No, he thought, that won't do.

He walked to the bin and looked at the box some more. Damn that Potter, he thought. Damn that noble bastard. For an instant the old hatred was back. The strength of the feeling was nearly overwhelming. He felt momentarily powerful, something that he hadn't felt in a long time. Hate was power. Tempting, so tempting, he thought, trying to shove the old feelings away.

It was difficult. He thought again of the letter from Hogwarts and the time of new beginnings. Groaning in frustration, he pulled the box out of the bin. He hurried from the study.

Pulling on his cloak, Draco Apparated to a park in Muggle London. It was a relatively safe Apparition point, he knew, deep in a thicket of trees, and unlikely to be seen by Muggles. This was about as close as he could get to Potter's residence magically, security on 'The Boy Who Defeated the Dark Lord' still tight against the vengeance of Death Eaters still on the loose. That annoyed him as well. Glorious Potter, with his entourage of Aurors, friends, and fawning masses, choosing to live in a mostly Muggle section of London.

It was only a short walk through the park, but Draco welcomed the chance to clear his mind in the fresh air and decide what he would say to Potter. Perhaps this was a time for new beginnings, after all.

So intent on his destination and so deep in thought, Draco didn't notice the dark-haired Muggle man following him. Everything went dark in an instant of pain and disbelief.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

He had killed the man - merely a blundering fool of a Muggle. It hadn't even taken much effort on his part. In full Death Eater regalia, Lucius Malfoy stood in the tidy lounge at number four Privet Drive, as men in cloaks and masks raced through the house, shouting and searching. Malfoy nudged the large lump of flesh at his feet in disgust - Potter's uncle. 

"There's no one else here, Lucius." An enormous man in a cloak and mask reported. Incompetent fools, Malfoy fumed. The boy had slipped through their grasp once again.

"Which is his room?" he demanded. Lucius wanted to see the place where Potter had been hiding, safely beyond his master's reach for these many years.

He followed the massive figure, Crabbe, upstairs past three bedrooms, two that were fussily decorated, and one that was packed to overflowing with junk. At the far end of the end of the hall was a very small room about the size of a closet at Lucius' manor home. Containing only a narrow bed, a dresser, and a desk, it was Spartan and dull. Lucius stepped into the room, looking curiously at his surroundings.

He imagined that Potter might have been there only moments before. Breathing deeply, he took in the air of the room as if he could scent the boy - the pathetic hero of the wizarding world who had somehow escaped the wrath of his lord for these many years.

Idly looking about, Malfoy pulled out the top drawer of the desk, emptying its contents onto the bed. He looked through them for a trace of Potter's whereabouts. There was nothing, only a few pieces of parchment, quills, and Muggle writing instruments of some sort. Huffing loudly, he pulled out the next drawer, coming across some old Hogwarts school books. He rifled through them, finding nothing of interest. The third drawer was completely empty. Potter must have had plenty of advance warning, he thought, to escape with all of his possessions. The final drawer was empty save for a small, wooden box that was shoved all the way to the back. Perhaps the boy had overlooked it, Lucius mused. If he had merely opened the drawer rather than pulling it out completely, he might have missed it.

Malfoy looked at the box. It was small but quite attractive, with a pattern of unusual woods inlaid cleverly in the top. Wondering what was inside, he opened it. Just a worthless set of chessmen. He growled low in his throat in frustration. It was nothing that would help him find the boy.

Snapping the lid shut, he slipped the box into a pocket of his robes. He didn't know why he wanted the thing, but having something of the Boy Who Lived felt pleasant. It was also a satisfying reminder that he had killed one of Potter's Muggle relatives. Malfoy smiled for a moment, but his grin gave way to a frown. Neither pleasure compensated for his rage at missing the boy outright.

He could hear the sounds of the Death Eaters as they ransacked the rest of the house. "Fools!" he scoffed, knowing they would find nothing. Someone had warned the boy - further evidence of a spy in his ranks. It was something he'd suspected for a while now, and he'd been carefully narrowing his list of potential traitors one by one. He was down to only a handful of suspects, each man high in the order of the Death Eaters. Goyle, Rosier, Sheffield, Hawkins, and Snape. It had to be one of them, he thought, disgusted. Lucius would be willing to kill them all just to be certain, but knew it would not please his lord.

Malfoy called the Death Eaters together and they Apparated back to their master.

Voldemort had gathered much strength since his rebirth. He was a veritable tower of baleful magic now. Malfoy cringed slightly under the Dark Lord's strong gaze as he reported the failure of the night's mission. 

"My Lord, Potter has slipped through our grasp."

The Cruciatus Curse hit him full on in an instant. Voldemort favored that particular curse, Malfoy had the misfortune to know. Unfortunately, it didn't get easier to bear with frequency. Malfoy took his punishment with gritted teeth, trying not to scream too loudly.

The pain finally eased and he found himself gasping for breath on the floor, quite conscious of the eyes of the other Death Eaters upon him. "I am most sorry, my Lord."

Voldemort turned his wand upon the other Death Eaters, each in turn, cold rage in his eyes. Lucius watched silently, glad that his turn was over and quite satisfied to see the others suffering as he had.

When he was finished, Voldemort screamed in rage, sparks shooting from his wand in a vicious red torrent. "I will have Potter! You will get me the boy!" His throng of Death Eaters quavered before him. Only Malfoy stood tall. He would have both the boy and the traitor. They would die a most painful death. Only then would he rest. His lord would be most proud… and generous.

After being dismissed by the Dark Lord, Malfoy Apparated to the manor, careful not to splinch himself after the Cruciatus. He sat alone in his study through the wee hours, his mind tracing the events of the evening to determine if he could narrow his list of suspects further.

His thoughts were interrupted by something poking painfully into his flesh as he shifted in his leather chair. Reaching into his pocket, he found the box. He'd forgotten about it. He opened the lid to look again at Potter's chess pieces. A sudden urge to smash them to bits struck him. He might have acted upon it, but a thought crossed his mind. He picked up a pawn in one hand and his wand in the other, and cast a spell to awaken the chess piece.

"Oy, put me down!" the pawn cried.

"Where is Potter?" Malfoy demanded. It was not difficult to torture the tiny pieces, and he got a certain amount of pleasure from hearing their tinny screams. Other than that, however, it came to naught. When he was satisfied that they knew nothing about Potter's whereabouts, he shoved the box in a drawer and promptly forgot about it.

It wasn't long before Malfoy narrowed his list of suspects. A few more failed missions and he was almost certain of the traitor's identity, although he still could prove nothing. He remained undecided on a course of action for some time. He knew he should go to his master, but he hungered to handle it himself. He would have his own revenge on the man that had betrayed both him and the Dark Lord. 

He would set a trap for the traitor that would leave no doubt in anyone's mind. After the turncoat was caught and Lucius killed him - in a most slow and painful manner - he would present the traitor's broken body and wand to the Dark Lord, along with the irrefutable evidence. His lord would be most grateful.

Malfoy made his plans. After the next meeting he put his trap into action, asking the spy to accompany him back to the Manor. Fool that he was, the man did as instructed. Lucius had a house-elf bring tea to the study, and when the two men were alone, he set his ruse in motion. 

"Severus," Malfoy smiled broadly, hoping to keep the man at ease. "I have a special plan that I hope you will assist me with. You are the only man for the job." The two men planned and plotted late into the night, Malfoy weaving his intricate trap to catch the traitor. 

It had gone well, Lucius thought once Snape had gone, certain the man suspected nothing. In a few days, Snape would be exposed for the spy he was. Then he would be dead. A satisfied smile crept over Malfoy's face as he imagined it. The look on Snape's face when he was confronted with his crimes - he could picture it.

A knock on the door interrupted gleeful thoughts of Snape's expression when confronted with his crimes.

"Father?" He looked up to see his son standing in the doorway of his study. Malfoy looked proudly at Draco, now so grown. He was looking forward to initiating his son - watching their master place the Dark Mark upon his arm. He smiled at Draco.

"Come in, son."

"Was that Professor Snape, Father?"

Lucius was momentarily annoyed, but told himself that it didn't really matter if Draco knew Snape had been there. Draco was his flesh and blood, and Lucius knew that he would do as he was told. Why wait for the Dark Mark, he thought. Perhaps it was time to initiate his son into his activities. The fact that he felt the need to brag - to show his son his cleverness, was an unspoken reason, hidden in the dark recesses of his mind. 

In his mind's eye, Lucius saw Draco and himself, ruling together beneath the Dark Lord, father and son standing proudly at the head of the legions of Death Eaters.

Lucius told Draco of his plans for the spy. He saw admiration in his son's eyes, although for a brief moment he suspected that there was something else. What was it, he wondered? Could it be sympathy for Snape? The man had been his son's teacher for years. Malfoy discounted this idea, secure that his belief that a Malfoy could never be so sentimental.

After he told his son the plan for the traitor, he told him about the real plan for Potter - not the false one that he had revealed to the spy, but the secret one that only he knew. Only a few more days and the boy would be theirs. The boy would be Voldemort's. The boy would be dead. After that, he and Draco would have their rightful reward.

A few days later, Malfoy was in a blind rage. Somehow Snape had slithered from his trap. A part of Lucius suspected his son, but he crushed that thought like a bug beneath his boot. Draco was of his flesh and the last of the Malfoy line. He'd been raised to know the importance of family and blood. He wouldn't give that up for some pathetic excuse for a schoolteacher.

Voldemort was vanquished soon after by Harry Potter, although Lucius Malfoy didn't live to see it. He died at Hogwarts, in his failed raid to find the boy. Instead of a cowering boy taking refuge in the school, his ranks of Death Eaters found prepared Ministry wizards and Aurors. Harry Potter slipped through their grasp once again. Lying in the blazing library, wounded and gasping for breath, Lucius Malfoy knew the truth. He knew why the spy, Snape, had escaped his trap, and why Potter was safely out of Hogwarts before his Death Eaters arrived. Before he succumbed to the sweet persuasion of death, the identity of another turncoat was most apparent to him. He died cursing the name of his own son.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Are you serious?" Harry asked, his eyes wide.

"No, I'm Ron," his friend joked wanly, the pun on Harry's godfather's name a common one between them. "Of course I'm serious. Do you think she'll say yes?"

Harry punched him on the shoulder. "Don't be daft, of course she will. I know how she feels about you. But are you sure you two are ready?"

Ron sighed and shrugged. "Well, we'll be leaving school in a couple of weeks. I thought of putting this off - with everything going on with You-Know-Who, and not knowing what'll happen… But I just can't." He flushed red and was silent for a moment, looking at Harry. Then his gaze grew wary. "You don't think I should, do you?"

Harry smiled. He knew that, for whatever reason, Ron set a very high stock in his opinion, and that self-doubt and uncertainty were not uncommon things for his best friend. "Stupid git, of course I think you should. She couldn't find anyone better, mate." Both young men laughed, enjoying a quiet camaraderie that only years spent and the things they had gone through together could engender.

"So, how are you going to ask her, then?" Harry waited expectantly, and watched as Ron's ears turned red. His friend was definitely starting to look uncomfortable. 

"Well, I haven't got it completely worked out yet, you know, exactly what I'll say… and everything…" Some conversations were difficult, even among friends, Harry realized as Ron sputtered. "I'd like to give her a ring, but I haven't saved enough for anything decent."

Harry started to feel a little uneasy. Money was always a bit of a touchy subject with his friend. Seven children and a Ministry job hadn't left the Weasley family particularly well off. Ron had always been conscious that most of the other pupils at Hogwarts had more money than he did. Harry, who was comfortably provided for with what his parents had left him, would lend Ron whatever money he needed in a second. He'd even give it as an outright gift, although he knew that Ron would never accept it.

Ron looked at him warily as though reading his thoughts. "Don't even think of offering, Harry. This has got to come from me."

Harry nodded, knowing his friend was right. Something like this should be Ron's own doing.

"So are you going to ask her without a ring?" Harry asked. "You could. I mean, it's Hermione. She's not the type of girl who cares a lot about… you know, money… and stuff."

"No," Ron shook his head. "That's just not right. I have to have something." 

"You could wait," Harry offered, hesitantly. "Once we get out of school we'll be earning money. You could, you know, save up."

Ron rolled his eyes and groaned a bit. "Do you know how long that could take?" He cursed impressively. "No, I can't wait. I don't want to wait. We may not have all the time in the world… you know, with this stuff going on. With… with… You-Know-Who and all."

"Sure you're not letting your hormones take over, Ron? Maybe you're just… anxious… about things." Harry grinned mischievously at his friend, who, he was pleased to see, got even redder in the face.

"Don't be a stupid prat, Harry. I just… well, you know. I just… love her that's all." It came out as a halting but hurried and somewhat embarrassed admission. "My parents were married right out of school. There's nothing wrong with it," Ron stated defensively.

"No offense, Ron. Just having you on a bit. Say no more." Harry backed off the subject quickly. "So, what are you going to do for a ring, then?"

Ron sighed and looked hesitant. Then he shrugged. "I have something I can sell. Its probably the only thing of value that I own." He nodded solemnly as if making a final decision. "It'll be worth it."

Harry didn't know what Ron was referring to. He knew all of Ron's possessions as well as his own, and he couldn't think of a single thing that would be worth the kind of money he would need for an engagement ring. Ron's broomstick was fairly new, but it wasn't an expensive model. Nothing else leapt to mind. "What?" Harry asked.

"Chess set." It came out as almost a mumble, and it took Harry a few seconds to realize what his friend had actually said.

Harry's jaw dropped. He hadn't even considered the chess set. It was so much a part of Ron that he couldn't imagine his friend parting with it. Harry knew that it had been Ron's grandfather's. In a family the size of the Weasleys, it meant something for Ron, the youngest boy, to have received an heirloom.

His friend had a natural talent for the game. Neither Harry nor Hermione had ever really beaten Ron at chess. He was probably the best player in the school. Ron's talent for the game had even been integral in saving the Philosopher's Stone from Voldemort in their first year at Hogwarts. Harry recalled Ron taking charge of the enchanted obstacle, directing the life-sized chessmen - and the three of them - through a game of particularly nasty wizarding chess. He'd sacrificed himself to ensure that Harry and Hermione made it through.

Harry knew that Ron cared for Hermione, even loved her. Despite this, he was a little surprised that Ron would consider selling this particular possession. Trying to hide his astonishment, he asked, "Is it worth that much?"

"I think so," Ron said. "My father told me it was a rare antique. Quite valuable."

It only took a moment for Harry to decide on a course of action. It was a somewhat risky route, he knew, but he had to go for it. "How much are you asking?" Harry inquired nervously, trying to gauge Ron's reaction.

Ron looked at Harry, who for a few moments wondered if he could read anger in his friend's eyes. Finally Ron laughed, and Harry was able to let out the breath he'd been holding. 

"Harry," Ron said, shaking his head. "You don't even like to play chess that much. And you've already got your own chessmen. I know you're just trying to be a good chum, but I don't want your charity."

Harry nodded slowly. "But Ron, don't be daft. You're selling, and I want to buy. What, my money not good enough for you? You'd rather sell to -" Harry cast about for a suitable subject, "- Draco Malfoy or something?" He could see Ron cringe at the mention of the Slytherin boy. "Sorry, Ron. I know you don't want charity, and I'm not offering it. But if you're selling to someone, it might as well be me."

Ron was shaking his head obstinately. "No, Harry, I won't have it."

Harry leaned toward his friend, his dark eyes serious. "Ron, this isn't charity. This is a business transaction. Simple commerce." Harry's voice turned dead serious. "And anyway, some things are more important than a load of misplaced pride." He looked closely at Ron. "Hermione, for example." 

Harry could tell his friend was thinking. He could almost see and categorize the emotions crossing his face. After several moments, Ron still looked hesitant, but Harry thought he was about to crack. Harry pressed, "Besides, if you sell it to me, I might even let you buy it back one day." He winked at his friend and was relieved to see Ron smile and sigh.

"Stupid git. You're right. Some things are more important."

They agreed on a price. Harry gave Ron the gold and took the chess set, wrapping it carefully in a spare shirt so it wouldn't get scratched while stored in his trunk. He wanted it to be in perfect condition when Ron came back for it.

Ron proposed the following week, a beautiful ring in hand for Hermione. Harry wasn't there, of course, but he saw Hermione shortly afterward and she was positively glowing. She showed him the ring almost shyly, her face reddened in excitement.

The pair took a lot of grief from the other Gryffindors for getting engaged at school. It didn't matter really - their final term was almost over. The seventh years would all be going their separate ways and start leading their new lives as adults. 

Harry, for one, wasn't looking forward to leaving school. He'd found a home at Hogwarts, something he'd never remembered having before. It wasn't simply a matter of anything being better than his life at the Dursleys'. He felt part of the magical world here.

It was more than just not wanting to leave a comfortable place. During his years at school, Harry hadn't struck upon anything he really wanted to do for a career. His one talent, playing Quidditch, seemed a definite waste of energy whilst the Death Eaters rampaged across Britain. He'd not been particularly great in any one magical subject, so he couldn't see himself brewing potions, caring for magical creatures, or gardening. He'd been offered several junior positions in the Ministry but had turned them down, half suspecting the various departments only wanted his famous name for their own internal squabbles. Harry had enough money to get by without working, if he was careful, but that wasn't a productive life. 

He finally decided to take Auror training, partly because it was something active against the Death Eaters, and partly because Ron was joining up as well. Harry wasn't sure this was his path, but it was better than any of the alternatives he could come up with. He wondered if he would ever be more than just 'The Boy Who Lived.'

The leaving feast was both sad and happy. Most of the seventh years practically glowed with anticipation of their adult lives. A few had that somber, scared look that Harry suspected showed on his own face. Ron and Hermione at least looked happy, he was glad to see.

"So, Harry, got everything all packed?"

Back in the common room after the feast, Harry looked up to see Ginny standing beside him. "Oh, yeah. All packed up and ready to go." It was the last night - the train back to London would be leaving early the next morning.

"I wish you could come to the Burrow. I don't know why they're making you go back there."

Harry groaned, not wanting to think about it. He was going back to the Dursleys for one last time. He'd long imagined that the moment he'd turn of age that he would be free of them forever. He sighed. "I'd love to come to the Burrow. Or the Leaky Cauldron. Or stay here at the school. But it's only for a few weeks. Just until I can get another place and the Aurors can secure it. Dumbledore has this idea that I'm safer there." He shook his head.

Ginny looked on, her face sympathetic. Harry didn't much care for that. It was a bit embarrassing. If it was anyone but Dumbledore, he would have ignored the advice and done as he pleased. As it was, however, he couldn't bring himself to go against his headmaster's wishes.

"I'll miss you next year. It won't be the same here… without you." Ginny smiled at him. 

She had a beautiful smile. It always made him feel like smiling back. Something about her smile made him feel warm and a bit squiggly inside. Ron's little sister was practically a grown up woman. Harry kicked himself a bit for thinking this way about his chum's baby sister. He'd been doing that for a while now, half hoping and half fearing that these strange feelings would pass. They hadn't.

"Er, Ginny?"

"Uh huh?"

"Would you mind if… I mean, could I…" He stumbled over the words, angry at himself for looking like a complete dunderhead. "Oh, blast it all, Ginny, could I write to you?"

Ginny looked surprised, and then pleased. She smiled at him, her brown eyes flecked with little bits of gold that Harry hadn't noticed before. "I'd like that, Harry"

They sat up talking together late into the night.

Back in Surrey, Harry spent most of his time in his sparse bedroom, avoiding the Dursleys and counting down the days until his newly-found residence could be secured. One evening while he was rereading one of his Quidditch books, a message arrived via a strange owl. It was a snowy owl, and for a moment, Harry thought perhaps it was Hedwig, who, he was glad to see, was still in her cage. The strange owl flew off immediately after dropping the scroll of parchment in his hand. Hedwig hooted after it in what to Harry sounded like an aggravated tone.

"Shh," he said, covering her cage. The last thing he needed was his Uncle Vernon to come up and complain about the noise. So far his stay in the Dursley home this summer had been fairly tolerable - he suspected his aunt and uncle were counting down the days as well.

Harry unrolled the parchment scroll and read the message. Could it be true? Or was this someone's idea of a joke? It was tempting to think so, but he knew instantly that it was no trick. He stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair with a loud bang. Racing downstairs, his heart pounding, he shouted for his aunt and uncle. They emerged from the lounge, looking irritated. His cousin, Dudley, who had finished at Smeltings with only a few O-Levels and A-Levels to show for himself, and who was showing no inclination to go on to University or find a job, lumbered down the stairs behind Harry.

"Uncle Vernon! Aunt Petunia!" Harry called urgently. "We have to get out of here! As quickly as possible. Now!"

His uncle looked cross. "What are you talking about, boy?"

"There's no time to explain," Harry stammered. "But we're in danger if we stay here!"

His uncle harrumphed and squinted at Harry, a look of irritation across his now purple face. "You are most welcome to leave at any time, boy. In fact, the sooner the better. We've longed to be rid of you for sixteen years, so don't let us hold you up."

The hateful words bounced off Harry, who had heard such things so often he no longer cared. What was important now was to get them to believe him. "Uncle Vernon, I'm telling the truth. Please. We all have to get out of here. Voldemort… The Death Eaters -"

The moment the phrase came out of Harry's mouth, his uncle looked ready to explode. "I've told you that I will not have that abnormality in this house! We're not going anywhere! Get out! You! Go!"

Harry watched, dumbfounded, as his uncle turned his back on him. Why wouldn't they believe him? What more could he say? He was certain his uncle wouldn't listen to 'I just got a warning that Voldemort's followers will be attacking number four, Privet Drive, tonight,' true though it may be.

"Yeah, you get out," his cousin said, lumbering a few menacing steps forward.

Harry trailed after his aunt into the kitchen. "Aunt Petunia! Please. We have to get out of here. Some evil wizards are coming. If they find you here they'll kill you. This is no joke. Please."

"Vernon!" his aunt shrieked, looking at him with a nervous expression.

Harry's uncle burst through the kitchen door, his face puffed up and an even more alarming shade of purple. He cuffed Harry hard on the side of the head with a meaty hand. 

Harry stumbled back, more surprised than injured by the blow. It was the first time his uncle had struck him in many years. Since Harry had been attending wizard school, the Dursleys had mostly been too frightened of him to resort to physical violence. Though his uncle had threatened him plenty, had locked him up, and had practically starved and otherwise neglected him, he hadn't physically hurt him.

The blow stunned Harry, who, at nearly eighteen, had thought that nothing the Dursleys could do would shock him anymore. Pulling his wand from his pocket with a shaking hand, he longed to curse the spiteful man. It was all he could do not to. He wasn't a child any longer, but a fully qualified wizard, and thus not subject to the restrictions on underage sorcery. It was tempting, so tempting. Muggle Protection Act be damned, he thought for an instant in rage.

Harry forced himself to take a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, he started to feel more pity than fury for his pathetic relations. He looked hard at his pudgy uncle, who had stumbled backward at the sight of the wand in Harry's hand. The man now stood awkwardly with one foot in the kitchen dustbin and his bulky body pressed up against the kitchen table. 

"Please believe me," he pleaded. "You're in danger."

"Get out! You're the one in danger, boy, if you remain in this house longer than another five minutes. Get your things and get out!" His uncle spoke loudly and indignantly. It might have been an impressive show if it were not for his foot being stuck in the dustbin. The metal bin clanged against the table leg absurdly as he tried to shake it off.

"Fools!" Harry said, his frustration eating quickly through whatever pity he had momentarily had for his uncle. "I'm warning you. When the Death Eaters get here they'll have no mercy. I'm leaving, and I suggest you all do the same."

Ignoring his uncle's comment of, "Good riddance," Harry fled the kitchen, shoving past his hefty cousin, whose bulk was plugging up the doorway.

Upstairs, Harry sent Hedwig off. It wasn't any good to send her with a note - too slow. Harry didn't have a Portkey and their fireplace was not on the Floo Network. Apparition was his only option. He took two minutes to gather his few possessions, tossing them haphazardly into his trunk. Shrinking the trunk and Hedwig's cage magically, he put them in his pocket and hurried out, afraid the Death Eaters might arrive at any moment.

Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, he saw his aunt standing alone in the front hall. She looked frightened, eyes wide in her bony face. Harry couldn't just leave. He had to at least try. "Aunt Petunia, I know that you're afraid. You should be. Please get out now. You don't have to come with me. Go to Mrs. Figg's. She'll help. Please go. Don't come back here tonight." 

His aunt didn't move. Harry looked deep into her hazel eyes, trying to make his voice calm and reasonable. "Aunt Petunia," he cleared his throat, "my mother was your sister. Lily… Lily was your sister. I know you didn't get along. I know that you've never wanted me here. That can't be helped now. For her sake, get out. For Lily's sake. The man who killed her is going to come here looking for me. It won't matter if I'm here or not. You're in danger. Go. Get Uncle Vernon and Dudley out. Save yourselves." He took her hands in his, surprised that she didn't pull away. Oddly, he realized that it was the first time he recalled touching or being touched by his aunt in many years. Her hands were cool and clammy, and her face, pale. He looked into her eyes for several long seconds, clasping her hands in his, feeling her fear and indecision.

"What are you still doing here, boy? I told you to get out!" Harry's uncle had come into the room. The angry man raised his hand for another blow, but stopped instantly at a warning look from his nephew.

Harry shook his head sadly. He looked at his aunt and gave her hands a final squeeze before dropping them, silently mouthing the words "please go." 

In an instant he'd Apparated to the Ministry offices, rushing to alert the Aurors. He couldn't leave the Dursleys there to be slaughtered. No matter what they had done, they didn't deserve that.

It didn't take long, only a few minutes, really, but by the time Harry and the Aurors got back to Privet Drive, the house was in ruins. Harry knelt at the side of his uncle, staring mutely at the body lying on the floor, shaking his head. He was sad and he was sorry, but most of all, he wished that he had done more. If he hadn't been so angry… If part of him hadn't want revenge for all the mistreatment over the years… Had his own vengeance and selfishness condemned Dursleys to death?

He should have just hexed them unconscious and levitated them out of the house or something. He might have been able to do it in time. Why hadn't he tried? Did he hate his own family so much he was willing to leave them to the mercy of the Death Eaters? Or should he have stayed behind to defend the Dursleys? Would he have had a chance? His mother had sacrificed herself for him, was it not fair that he should have done the same for his own family?

"Harry?" Mr. Weasley was standing behind him. He'd come with the Aurors. Harry looked up, blinking, his eyes damp.

"Harry, your aunt and cousin aren't here."

Harry was surprised. Even though he'd urged her to go, he couldn't believe that his aunt would have voluntarily left her husband's side, particularly at Harry's advice. But he couldn't imagine that the Death Eaters would have taken his aunt and cousin. Had Aunt Petunia believed him after all? Willing himself not to hope, Harry said, "Check at Mrs. Figg's, will you?"

Mr. Weasley nodded and vanished. Harry sat quietly with his uncle's body amidst the devastation of the lounge. In a few minutes Mr. Weasley returned with Harry's aunt and cousin. His aunt's face looked tired and frightened, and Harry could see the streaks tears had made through her makeup. Harry stood up, relief evident on his face. "Aunt Petunia -"

The thin woman looked past him to the body of her husband. A look of disbelief on her face, she stumbled forward and fell to her knees, sobbing.

"Aunt Petunia? I'm so sorry. I tried to get help… I tried…"

She wasn't listening to him.

"You… you killed my father!" Dudley's shocked and confused face entered his vision.

"I'm sorry, Dudley. I tried…I tried…" Harry shook his head. He couldn't say any more. He stepped backward out of Dudley's reach. His cousin stood there mutely, staring at the devastation around him.

Mr. Weasley said, "Harry, it's not safe for you here. I'll have the Aurors take charge of your family. They'll be safe. We need to get you out of here. Now. In case the Death Eaters come back."

Harry shook his head. He didn't want to leave like this.

"No," Mr. Weasley insisted. "We have to get you out of here. We shouldn't have let you come back here, really. We'll go to the Burrow. I'll have some Aurors come with us. It should be safe for the time being. Is there anything you want to take away with you?"

Harry thought for a moment, trying to focus. It was difficult, standing here amidst the destruction and death. He'd thrown everything into his trunk before leaving, hadn't he? There was nothing of his remaining, and there was certainly nothing of the Dursleys' that he wanted. But - he didn't know why he suddenly remembered it amidst the chaos of his sobbing aunt, his menacing cousin, the debris-strewn house, and Aurors rushing about - the image of Ron's chess set came to mind. It was in his desk. He'd forgotten it.

Racing upstairs, Mr. Weasley hurrying behind him, Harry burst into his ransacked bedroom. It was actually quite orderly compared with the rest of the house because Harry had had few possessions to be disturbed. The desk drawers were turned out, he saw, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Harry rummaged through the things strewn about the bed and floor. He searched the room quickly. The chess set was not there. It was gone.

Compared with a loss of life, Harry knew this loss should be minor, but it wasn't just a box of chessmen to him. It was Ron's and he'd lost it. He'd failed to keep safe a thing that meant so much to his best friend. To Harry, the chess set had become a symbol of his friendship with Ron. It had become a symbol of Ron's love for Hermione. Harry felt like crying, immediately disgusted that he felt a deeper grief for it than he had for his uncle.

"There's no time, Harry. We've got to go," Mr. Weasley urged, looking around him curiously.

When they went back downstairs, his uncle was no longer lying on the floor in the lounge. His aunt and cousin were gone as well. Part of the Auror cleanup efforts, Harry guessed. Probably to keep the Muggle authorities from finding out.

Harry numbly let Mr. Weasley take him back to the burrow. It was a few days before he could speak of the Dursleys at all, and even longer before he told Ron about the chess set.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

It was his eleventh birthday and Ron was not in a good mood. His brothers had already played a stupid joke on him today, sending him an owl from school laden with a Dungbomb. Stupid prats, those twins! And he was still being punished for disobeying his mother by flying his broomstick instead of tidying his room.

As Ron came down to the kitchen for breakfast, his mother kissed him on the cheek. "Happy birthday, sweetums."

"Yeah, happy birthday, sweetums," Ginny called out in a singsong voice. He glared at her. Little sisters could be so annoying!

The day of Ron's eleventh birthday proved to be dull and uneventful after the excitement of the morning Dungbomb, but that evening his family had a little party for him. Ron's spirits perked up when he found out that his grandparents were coming for his birthday. Ron liked his grandfather very much. He got the feeling that the man liked him as well - possibly even better than, or at least differently from, his older brothers.

After a dinner consisting of all of Ron's favorites - roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, jacketed potatoes, pickled onions, and pumpkin juice - Ron opened his birthday presents. Bill had sent him a scarab from Egypt, the attached note assuring him that the Mummy's curse had most probably been successfully removed. Charlie had sent a big packet of _Martin Miggs, The Mad Muggle_ comic books, Ron's favorites. From school, Percy had sent their poor old owl, Errol, to the Burrow with a very thick and extremely boring-looking book entitled, _Hogwarts, A History_. Ron set it aside immediately, vowing silently to misplace it at the earliest opportunity. 

Apart from the Dungbomb that morning, Fred and George had sent Ron a packet of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. He had soon discovered they had all the nice flavors picked out, and some new and very strange ones added. Ron doubted very much that axle grease was a proper flavor.

From his mother he received a hand-knitted jumper - in maroon, of course - and some socks. He hated maroon. Why was it always maroon? Ron perked up when he opened his father's gift of a second-hand wizarding wireless. He could listen to the Quidditch matches now to his heart's content. His team, the Chudley Cannons, had a real shot this year. Sure, they were last in the league so far, but they just needed some time.

His little sister Ginny had made a cake for his birthday - with their mum's help. It was lopsided and the icing looked a bit like sludge, Ron thought, eyeing it uncomfortably. But he found that it tasted all right.

"You'll be going to Hogwarts this fall, won't you Ron?" Ron's grandfather asked, his once-red Weasley hair now long and gray.

"Yeah!" Ron said excitedly. He could hardly wait for September. It would be so thrilling to go to school. School would mean he was no longer a child. It would mean an end to the tutorials his mother gave him at home, an end to chores around the house, and an end of being stuck at the Burrow with his baby sister. He smiled a wide smile. 

His grandfather clapped him on the back, a proud look in his eye. "I still remember my time at the place - hoggy, warty, Hogwarts!" 

Ron cringed slightly, but smiled as his grandfather launched into a rendition of the school song in a peppy melody. When he was done, the old man laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "I've got something for your birthday, Ron. I think you'll like it." He winked at his grandson. "And you'll find it dead useful at school." 

Hoping it wouldn't be more clothes or another book, Ron's smile grew wide when his grandfather passed him a wrapped package that he could immediately tell was neither. His parents looked on curiously as he took the box.

Tearing off the ribbon and paper, he found a box made of different colors of wood. He looked at it curiously and shook it, hearing a rattle but unable to guess what was inside. He looked curiously at his grandfather, who smiled and winked at him. Opening the lid, Ron saw the chess set. His breath caught in his throat. "Brilliant!"

Ron had seen this set at his grandfather's house. It stood on a polished table near the bay window in the parlor. He'd often played against it, using a cheap and unremarkable set of chessmen he'd found at the Burrow. The old man, using the chessmen now in Ron's hand, had taught him the game, there by the window. They'd spent many long afternoons of it.

They were fond memories for Ron, sitting in the sunlight of his grandparents' parlor in a tall wingback chair, looking out across the chessboard. His first games had been nothing short of pathetic - he cringed a bit, remembering - but lucky for him, his grandfather was a patient man. 

Possibly the old man had seen something in his grandson - a spark of talent or even genius, perhaps. He'd taught the boy about the pieces and the moves, but it was more than that. He'd taught Ron how to think about the game - a philosophy of chess… a psychology of chess. Ron learned how to develop a strong position and how to read his opponent's moves. His grandfather had explained to him the difference between tactics and strategy, and how a sacrificed piece early could well make for a greater gain later.

They'd played together for several years, his grandfather expertly moving his experienced chessmen about the board, sometimes playing to win, sometimes making moves simply to challenge Ron's assumptions. Ron had never managed to win a game against the old man, although just last week he had achieved a draw. He'd cheered and shouted and practically danced around the parlor, beaming proudly at his accomplishment. His grandfather had been proud as well.

Ron glanced at the chess set, and then looked back up at his grandfather in disbelief.

The old man smiled, his face crinkling merrily. Mrs. Weasley dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, while Mr. Weasley put his arm around her and hugged her shoulders.

"But… these are…for me?" Ron stumbled over the words, still incredulous at his wonderful gift.

"For you, Ron." His grandfather winked at him. "I wish you a very happy birthday and many great games in the future."

Unable to believe his luck, Ron kept the chess set with him all evening, examining the tiny figures closely and setting them up in various game configurations, pestering everyone - including his little sister, Ginny - for a match.

After his grandparents left and Ron had gone to bed, his father came up to say goodnight. Ron was surprised. It was usually his Mum who tucked him in.

His father sat down on the edge of the bed. "You're a very lucky boy, Ron. I never thought my father would part with that chess set. He's had it since before I can remember. It's quite old. Antique, really."

Ron's jaw dropped open at the thought that the chess set was likely older than his own father, and by a lot.

Mr. Weasley kissed Ron on the forehead and stood up. He turned back as he reached the door. "You'll take good care of it, won't you, Ron? It's quite valuable."

Ron nodded, suddenly nervous at the prospect of being responsible for something so old and expensive. He dreamed about chess that night, and for many nights afterward.

Ron put the chess set to good use for many years, honing his skill against his grandfather, his family, and the other pupils at Hogwarts. He had yet to meet a player who was as good as he was. He didn't know how he'd developed it, but he had the ability to see several moves ahead. The tactics and strategies he'd learned from his grandfather came as natural to him as breathing. He often recalled the old man's explanations about sacrificing tactical gain for strategic advantage. It was something that most novice players couldn't really understand. This lesson of sacrifice had been most valuable, costing him a blow to the head, but allowing Harry to proceed through the enchanted chessboard of their first year, saving the Stone from You-Know-Who. Ron positively glowed with pride whenever he recalled this experience.

Over their years together at Hogwarts, Ron had taught Harry the rudiments of chess. His friend had become a proficient, although not particularly skilled, player. Hermione was better, although she had never beaten him. Ron doubted that she ever would, unless he let her. She played too much by the book and not enough by instinct. She was logical and clever, but she couldn't see the opportunities that he could see.

The old and battered chess set was beautiful. Despite its age, it was the nicest thing that Ron had ever owned. Alone in the Gryffindor boy's seventh year dormitory, Ron stared at it, going through his memories of the many games and many opponents.

Ron smiled, thinking that it was a good thing for Hermione to lose once in a while, especially to him. 

Ron was deciding something. It was something that would take all of his courage. His stomach felt a bit wobbly, but he told himself that he was put into Gryffindor house for a reason. This wasn't some completely rash decision. He'd been considering it for several months now, always telling himself that it was too soon and that they were not ready. The arguments his brain kept throwing out to him were good ones, but he wasn't listening anymore.

They were young - some might say too young - and in their last term at school. He and Hermione weren't any younger than his own parents had been when they were engaged, Ron knew, and plenty of wizarding folk married young. 

These were different times now. The rise of You-Know-Who had insured that. The world was grim and dark, and people everywhere were afraid. _The Daily Prophet _screamed out headlines of attacks on the Ministry, Muggles, and Muggle-borns. Aurors were fighting and dying against Voldemort's legion of Death Eaters. As Hogwarts pupils, they were relatively safe at the school. It was disconcerting, though, Ron thought, sitting safely in classes as battles for the wizarding world were being fought outside their doors.

Within a few weeks, Harry, Hermione, and Ron would learn what it was like to live in the outside world once again. The prospect was both frightening and intriguing to Ron, who didn't like sitting back while people were being killed. He was going to take Auror training once he left school. He was going to do something.

Ron had known for a long time that it was love he felt for Hermione, even longer than he was willing to admit to himself. They had been officially dating since Valentine's of last year. The road to officially becoming a couple had been awkward and ugly at times, with misunderstandings on both sides, but eventually they'd sorted it out. 

The thought of being alone after the term ended - of not being with her - was too much for Ron. It prodded him into action. He decided he had to do it. He had to ask her.

Ron looked through his trunk fervently, finding only a few silver Sickles and one gold Galleon. Not enough for a ring - definitely not enough. He fingered his belongings thoughtfully. Patched robes, the Omnioculars that Harry had given him years ago, bound stacks of Chocolate Frog Wizard cards, schoolbooks, stale owl treats, stray packets of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, a Chudley Cannons hat, his broomstick… The whole lot was not worth more than a few Galleons, even if he could find someone willing to buy it.

His eyes moved back to his night table where the chess set stood. It was the only way, he told himself. Then he shook his head, searching again through the trunk, as though some gold might somehow appear magically. Magically… hmm, he thought. No, the penalty for transfiguring money or anything monetarily valuable was far too severe. 

He looked at the chess set again. Hermione doesn't care about material things, he told himself. Ron knew that was normally true. He knew that she did care for him, and she had never cared one whit about the fact that he hadn't any money. But his was a different matter. A marriage proposal required a proper ring. There was no way around it. He found he didn't want to get around it, either. It just wouldn't be the same without a ring, and Hermione deserved the best.

Ron knew that girls fantasized about marriage proposals and weddings from the time they were little. His sister, Ginny, had done so when they were both quite young - always trying to get him to play wedding with her and her dolls. Although Hermione wasn't an ordinary sort of girl, Ron suspected that a girl was a girl was a girl, at least as far as this subject was concerned. 

Ron considered borrowing money, but he knew he wouldn't be able to - he'd never been able to ask for money. Even from Harry. Especially from Harry. It was a pride thing, he knew, but there was nothing for that. Percy was a bit mean, always with a tight hold on his money. Ron couldn't ask him. Fred and George were strapped from making a go with the joke shop. Ron thought of his oldest brothers. Studying dragons wasn't a particularly financially rewarding occupation, so Charlie was probably out. Bill… Bill was a possibility. He made a good living at Gringotts. Perhaps he could write him a letter… No, it just wouldn't do. Ron was too proud to ask any of his brothers for money.

Ron thought briefly about his parents, but he put that out of his mind quickly, knowing that despite the fact that the Weasleys' finances had improved somewhat, money was still in short supply. He was an adult now and nearly out of school. His brothers had never pestered their parents for money, and Ron wouldn't be one to do so.

He would just have to sell the chess set. Having decided finally, he started to feel a little better. He went down to the common room to find Harry.

Looking around to make sure nobody was within earshot - Hermione was in the library - Ron told his best friend about his decision to propose. Like a good chum, Harry had always been supportive of his two best friends' romantic relationship, even though Ron knew it must make him feel left out sometimes.

Harry's reaction to the news was quite helpful. While Ron was still unsure if Hermione would accept, at least now he was fairly certain that she wouldn't laugh in his face when he asked.

He could tell that Harry wanted to give him the money for the ring. He'd seen that look before. It was out of friendship, not pity, he knew, but even so, Ron warned Harry not to offer. An offer like that would both hurt his ego and would be too hard to turn it down.

When Harry offered to buy the chess set from him, however, Ron let himself be convinced. Harry was right, he told himself, if he was going to sell, it might as well be to a friend. He could afford to set his pride aside because Hermione was worth it.

With a final look at the chess set, he handed it over, trying not to look again at the box that had been with him for so many years. 

"You can use it anytime, Ron," Harry said as Ron laughed and shook his head, trying to keep his emotions hidden.

Ron knew that he wouldn't. Not until he had the money to buy it back properly.

At the weekend, Ron found the perfect ring in a little shop in Hogsmeade. It was an attractive vintage ring, not pretty in a customary way, but striking nonetheless. Understated and elegant, and in no way ostentatious, he knew from the moment he saw it that it was the right one. It reminded him of Hermione, and he knew in his heart that she would like it.

Now, if he only knew how to ask her…


	8. Epilogue

Epilogue

The party was fully underway when Virginia arrived. Children of all ages scampered about the rambling house and garden. Chatting merrily, the party guests greeted each other, their hands busy with cups of punch and plates of food. The gift table immediately caught her eye, overflowing as it was with piles of brightly wrapped packages. The small, beribboned parcel she carried in her pocket didn't strike her as impressive compared with the monstrous pile of gifts before her. It weighed little enough - she decided to keep it with her for the time being.

She chatted with aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends in the atmosphere of merriment. Her great uncles, still plenty sprightly, teased the children with trick sweets. She laughed as one cousin's hair changed shades in a rainbow of colors from puce to lavender to salmon. Several other children burst into assorted barnyard animals for a several seconds before popping back into themselves, giggling. Loud bangs could be heard as people unwittingly tripped booby-traps of enchanted confetti, which subsequently followed them, repeatedly raining down on their heads until they could figure out the counter spell.

Virginia waved away an offering of a suspicious-looking treat and was glad she had done so when she saw one of her little cousins sprout large, wiggly antennae after taking a bite. One of the tamer efforts of her uncles, she thought, at least until she saw that six sets of insect-like legs were erupting as well.

Virginia drank a cup of punch with her great aunt and namesake, who was trying to corral the children, a number of whom were her grandchildren, Virginia's cousins, into the parlor. They were actually second cousins or cousins once removed or something, but in a family as close as theirs, the specifics didn't matter. Virginia helped her round them up, including the three who were still fleecy lambs from an especially long-lasting trick sweet.

Virginia caught a glimpse of her mother, who was wheeling a trolley with a giant cake on it. The icing inscription read, "Happy 50th Anniversary!" Candles flickered across the cake, blinking out festive patterns that someone joked were Muggle distress signals of some sort. Bursts of fireworks shot from the cake at odd intervals, showering colored sparks across the room.

Family and friends alike gathered around the cake, and the two guests of honor were given transfigured, regal-looking velvet thrones to sit upon. Flashes from wizarding cameras lit up the room, capturing the moment in time.

Everyone drank to the couple, raising their glasses and chuckling as her Great Aunt Ginny's husband delivered a witty toast. Cake was distributed and the fireworks finally ceased. It was time for presents. Virginia watched as gifts were opened, one after the other, and hugs and kisses and much laughter exchanged. Finally, there were no more. Virginia felt in her pocket for the wrapped box. It was now or never, she thought. Approaching almost hesitantly with the gift, she fiddled with the ribbon nervously.

"Happy anniversary." Hands trembling a bit, she held out the package toward her grandfather. The man looked nowhere near his sixty-eight years of age despite his gray hair. He smiled as she kissed both him and her grandmother on the cheek.

"My, my," he chuckled, holding the box and giving it a little shake. "What do we have here? Another present?" He sat back, putting his arm around his wife, brushing her still-thick hair aside. "What do you think, dear? Should we check it for curses?" he joked.

Nervously Virginia looked on as her grandfather pulled off the ribbon and paper. When he saw the box, his breath caught in his throat and he made a strange sound. "This isn't… it couldn't…" His fingers stroked the box lightly, feeling the smooth finish beneath his fingertips.

His wife leaned closer. "What is it, dear?"

He opened the lid with a practiced movement. Upon seeing the contents of the box, her grandfather lowered the box to his lap and put one hand over his eyes. For a long moment, Virginia worried that she might have upset him. She wished almost desperately that a hole might open up in the floor to carry her away. She wished she had never found the thing in that Muggle pawnshop.

Her grandfather stood suddenly and embraced her in a huge bear hug. His lips next to her ear, he whispered quietly, "I never thought that I would see it again. Thank you."

Her grandmother was looking at the chess set. "My goodness, is this…?"

"It is."

Aunt Ginny's husband stepped closer, an incredulous expression on his face. "But… but… how…where -"

Her grandfather raised his wand and shot sparks in the air, getting everyone's attention. 

"I want to show everyone something very special," he said, lifting the box to display its contents. "My dear granddaughter, Virginia, brought it to us. It is so incredible that it could be found and returned after all these years. I never thought… Never…" Ron shook his head. "I won't even ask her where she got it. I think I'd rather have the mystery."

He cleared his throat and looked out over his family, who were all gathered around, looking curiously at the box he held in his hand. "I'm sure you've all heard the story of how Hermione and I met at school." There was some immediate groaning and eye rolling, mostly from the younger kids, although Virginia saw her twin great uncles sniggering as well. Her grandfather's voice cut through the noise and the crowd drew again silent. "And how we fell in love, and how I proposed before the Hogwarts leaving feast at the end of our seventh year."

"Some of us lived through it - barely - or don't you recall, Ron?" Virginia's great aunt called out, laughing.

"This chess set was the only thing of value that I owned. I wanted to ask Hermione to marry me, but I didn't have the money for an engagement ring." He swallowed hard, and Virginia thought that his eyes looked a little moist.

"Some of you may have heard this story, but bear with me. It's my party, after all." A sprinkling of laughter rang through the room.

He took his wife's hand and led her from the chair to stand next to him. He winked at her. "Of course, my head told me that if she was dumb enough to fall for a clown like me in the first place, then she might just be dumb enough to accept my proposal without a ring…" He paused a moment as more laughter filled the room and Hermione batted him on the chest lightly. "But my heart knew better," he announced.

"So I sold the only thing I had that was worth anything to my best friend, Harry. This set of chessmen." He gestured with the box of chessman at Harry, who had given the toast earlier and stood nearby, looking at the chess set, still wearing an expression of extreme astonishment. Harry had told him that the Death Eaters had taken or destroyed the chess set, so Ron imagined that seeing it again probably brought back memories of that terrible night at Privet Drive.

"Yes - sold it to Harry. He drove a hard bargain, the skinflint…" He winked at Harry, who rolled his eyes and laughed. "But it was enough to buy the ring - a nice enough one that she couldn't possibly turn me down." The crowd laughed.

"I loved this chess set so much. I loved it because it was my grandfather's, and he taught me how to play the game. I loved it because knowing the game helped Harry, Hermione, and me do something absolutely incredible during our first year at school. I loved it because of all those hours I spent winning. I especially loved it for all those hours that Hermione spent losing." It was Hermione's turn to roll her eyes as everyone laughed.

Ron picked a knight from the chess set and held it in his hand, looking at it. "Chess can be a very good teacher in life. I learned a lot about strategy and tactics at my grandfather's knee, but the most important thing I learned was what sacrifice truly means. Sometimes you have to sacrifice something to win. Sometimes," he placed the knight carefully back in the box, "you have to give up something now for something you want in the future."  


"You've all seen wizarding chessmen, but did you know," he said, looking about him, "that Muggle chess sets actually contain two sets of chessmen?" Most of the people in the room shook their heads, murmuring. "In our world, it's not like that. In the wizarding world, two sets of chessmen coming together make a real game. Sort of like people - two people coming together make a life… Sorry, I digress. On with the story."

"Before we all die of old age, please," Ron's brother, Fred, called out.

Ron looked again at the box. "Ah yes, about chess. And sacrifice. And strategy. I realized that some things are more important than memories. Things like caring. And love. And a chance to make new memories with someone as special as my wife." He looked at Hermione and kissed her lightly on the lips.

"So I did it." He paused, as the room was silent. "I sold my most prized possession for a chance at something better. And I never regretted it once…" Ron looked around, a grin creeping across his face. "At least until my stupid prat of a best friend lost the bloody thing!"

Everyone burst out laughing, Harry included.

"Almost didn't let him marry my sister for that." Ron added, winking at his sister.

He lifted the box again. "I never imagined that I would see it again, but today it is returned to me - to us. Thank you, Virginia, for a chance to remember. You have a fine eye for the game yourself - from my tutorial, naturally." He smiled at her. 

Virginia smiled back at her grandfather, memories of many hours spent together at a sunny table littered with chessmen running through her mind happily. Her mother squeezed her shoulder and smiled.

"Thank you, Harry, for making me realize fifty years ago that there are some things more important than pride." Ron nodded at his friend. He turned to Hermione. "Thank you, my dear wife, for being the lovely person that you are. And for not laughing in my face when I proposed."

Everyone clapped and cheered as Virginia's grandparents kissed long and quite passionately.

Afterward, Ron looked about him and shook the box he still held in his hand. "Now, does anyone care to watch me beat Hermione at chess again after all these years?" Laughter filled the room - a room full of family and love and friendship.


End file.
